Step by Step/Issue 36
This is Issue #36 'of [[Step by Step|''Step by Step]]. This is the sixth and last issue of '''Volume Six. Bates Clack-clack-clack. Tip-tip-clack-clack-clack. The slow tread of heavy work boots worked ominously down the tunnel, but the sound of clashing metal and the blowing wind muffled his prowl. On the prowl, Randy thought. He liked the tune it carried. On the prowl with a big fat scowl, he paraded on. That sounded fine, real nice. And what ruined it was the steadfast pounding in his ears, that stomach-whirling excitement. His hands went around the pistol grip, showing no mercy. There's the taste of cigarette butt in his mouth, and he doesn't burn the midnight oil like a certain Jackson. Things like this weren't all that bad. It meant people'd been here. The taste of nicotine was fresh. The sewer was more rowdier, a lot stinkier than before. Randy was right on the money. The light above him started blinking out. It kicked around, focused, settled well, then erupted in sparks like an old powerline. There were no undead here, but that still left a spare problem. One that was dangerous, one that ate dinner plates of sanity and gulped down fine-hot wines that trickled down legs. Yes, Randy was afraid of the dark. His back kissed the wall. Walking along it, he was a clear target. He considered moving, but his attention switched over to the five intruders. They stood moving, unpredictable huntsmen tracking footprints in mud. Droppings, too. His prowl slowed down. This was not good. If there were five only, that was all right. If they were armed, which they were, that'd be no sweat off his back. But say they're not just a small five-person party, say the others were nearby. There had to be others, so the idea of running out shooting did not seem pleasing for good ol' boy Randy Juarez. "I don't think I can stay down here long," Amanda said, walking in close beside Malcolm. "It's terrible here. The smell here is God-''awful''." "It's terrible under here and terrible up there," Malcolm said, not sure how to continue. Then he did. "Remember what I said, officer? Roll with the punches, roll with em." "It's not just that," she said. "I'm scared." After a moment of thought, Malcolm figured he had no response. He was afraid himself. The Grim reaper gave off that impression on people; it made Malcolm's skin crawl, his spine tingle like cold water down a pipe, and his voice shake when he spoke. "Nobody's gonna die today," a voice said. "Not me, not you. None of us five." Then the million dollar question hit him—"How are we going to explain this. What's happened, what's been going on. Who's died, who's left. Haven't you thought about the damage?" "You know, miss," Malcolm began, the pain of a thousand punches in the gut striking him. "I'm not too sure. I'll leave that in His hands." "Who?" Doggone it, she was an owl. "Who?" "The man I made a deal with." Malcolm looked one way down the tunnel. "I was walking with Carter around the church, and I sort of dazed off. He says I stopped dead in my tracks, lips mumbling like I was myself speakin in tongues." Amanda gave a wan smile. "Is that right?" "I asked if it'd be all good to take the four men into custody," he licked his lips. "Well, if I'd be justified to make whatever happens to them happen." "Like what?" "Oh, I don't know," Malcolm feared out a sly breath of air, looking back at her. "Small town folk, you never know what'll go down." Carter snickered. "No God answered back." "Carter," Amanda said, "shut up." Carter Jameson smirked, holding in laughter. He gestured a hand at Malcolm and told Hector, "Why doesn't he?" "No clue." "Maybe he's deaf." "Good one." "What?" Amanda asked. "Shut up," said Malcolm. "You heard the man," Hector said, clapping Carter on the shoulder. He looked at Malcolm with burning, red puddles in his eyes. "Why don't you shut up?" This Hector Pacino was drunk—Malcolm saw it. So did Amanda. "You don't worry about me, worry about them," Malcolm said, craning his head around the place. He let out a big sigh and his cheeks that were so stressed went slack again. From behind them a door opened, but no one saw a thing. Malcolm would have seen Randy on his prowl towards them, but the two killers blocked his line of sight. "You work under me. It's simple, not the other way around." "I don't like you, mister. See, at the school, it was me. I was the leader. Not Brock. Then you two messed up, and now people have died. I don't like you and don't trust you." "Neither do I," Carter said, face turning a cruel blue in the emptiness of black. "This sewer stinks like the both of you. It seriously reeks." Hector drunkenly laughed: Ha-ha-ha. Malcolm looked Carter dead in the eyes. He wasn't the man who'd left Summercreek. He wasn't the one who had helped take the Trouble Quartet. Malcolm knew he was staring into the perishing soul of a once great man, now a cancerous new entity raged within him. This was a new Carter, a better Carter. "You understand me, right?" "Yessuh," Carter yipped playfully. "Yessuh, yessuh. And I yank a good one every now and again." He flashed Amanda a wink. "Now ain't that right?" "You two better shut up," Amanda blurted, a light twinking in her eye. "I mean it. We're supposed to be working together. As a group. Not bickering about stupid shit." "Real annoying," Hector said. "Very annoying," Carter added. You nigger, he did not. But he did make out a surprise, "Holy shit!" He'd seen the Trouble Quartet troublin down the tunnel. Carter would've acted on it, but that was when the gates of Hell flew open. The first of the gunshots hit the ceiling. Rock dust flew in a spout, covering Malcolm's head in a thick flour-white. He managed a half-scream, a whimper that a sheep makes when disturbed during its grazing. The second shot sounded off right after, striking the ground in front of Malcolm's feet. "What the hell?" Patrick Hughes said, a look of innocence on his face that seemed that of a new kid at school surrounded by bloodthirsty bullies. "What the hell?" That's when Hector and Carter made runs. One of them, Patrick would later find this was Carter Jameson's doing, bumped into him and crashed him into the wall. He fell splat on the ground, and Malcolm tripped over his ankles. The two deserters kept on, until they too cowered behind a stock of barrels. A solid dispensed out onto the floor. Amanda chambered another cartridge in. She hadn't the least idea where to shoot, the horror in her chest told her to shoot anywhere. The rifle's stock rocketed back into her shoulder. Her hands fumbled in another shell, fired it, and dispensed the solid. Soon enough, she was ran dry. It was Benjamin's rifle. As Malcolm and the Hughes-man steadied up, Amanda did fire off one last shot, and it hit home. Much less bloody than Jose, it took out the green light. The lantern garbled in a fiery of clashing lights, kicked around, and then a wet, damp towel of death smothered it. The entire tunnel darkened over—nothing was ever the same. There was a muffled crash in the room beside them. A soul'd been snatched and taken Elsewhere. "Run!" The invisible man cheered. "You'll die tired!" ---- The notorious thugs had made it. The room was the long home to a generator. It's too hot in here, and Lyle knew it. He led the path with the torch, the flames in uproar. They leapt, and so did Malik. And Dennis. Both were scared. It's cause of you, Lyle thought. They scared've the real Lyle Jackson. Contrary to popular belief, Lyle was afraid've some things—one of those being waking up in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder and having to do five Hail Marys. What he would do in this room would demand exactly that. "I think this is far enough," Nolan said. "We could keep goin, but this is as dead of an end as they come." Derek Woods answered him by slamming the door. "What now?" Malik looked around then settled on Lyle. "We hafta find the young ones." "We will." The Grim reaper neared them both, giving Lyle's shoulder a keen sniff. He had no desire to take them both. He wished for one soul. "We will getcha young'uns. Nolan, we'll round im up right?" "It depends on what you mean," Nolan responded, helping Derek shuttle a plank on the door and cork it. "If you mean to find them with them folk after us, you got better chances winning the lotto." Malik's eyes creased and his fear slouched into sadness. "Do you think he'll help me find them?" "I wouldn't run it past him." Lyle Jackson swayed the flaming stick around him. Specks of glittery ash hung around him. He was examining the man in the grace of the light, and what he saw here was a full plate's worth of bad. Even with the thick hotness in this room, the skin on Malik's body was goosebumped. His mouth had turned into a shaky white line, eyes widened themselves, and his ears had spread apart so that they were perked up like a scared rat's. All were signs that the Grim reaper had placed a hand on the man's shoulder. Vulnerable's a mighty feel, Lyle thought. "You bet," he said, "like you know where those kids are." Malik's eyes crossed together. "What?" he asked, sounding hoarse yet wanting to speak more. "The kids, Malik. The kids." "We needa get to em!" Malik shouted. "NOW!" "You need to wait, buster." "I told you now. I want them with me now." "They're having a dinner up above," Lyle said. "Eating at the Great Table... dining on the freshest grapes... the best olives and onions around. Hot, warm bread. Doesn't that sound good, brother?" "Where?" He saddled up, heart galloping. "Christ, tell me. Heaven?" Lyle pointed at Derek, and the tall one spoke. "They's dead." "And you'd know that," Lyle said, smacking his lips. He plucked the cigarette outta his mouth. "You'd sure know that well. You sure do want the loot." "What loot?" "The loot, Malik." Lyle leaned in. "The stash, Malik. You think we got something on us. You think that if you trick us, you can get it. Get what? The loot, Malik. The real stuff which we don't got. That's where you failed, Malik. You figured you'd be able to throw us down, play a trick on us, kill one or two of us. Make out with the loot." "Malik wants to leave now," Nolan said, taking one step before them. "You should let him. I've seen too much death lately." "Death is all around and all too near," Lyle declared, his lungs at ease. "Bone to bone, shackled together in the flesh." "You can let him go," Nolan repeated. "You can let him—" "Nolan. I don't mean to be offensive," Lyle started. "But weren't you the person who snapped Frank's neck? Helped me with Tom—" "Tom's different. Frank wasn't my fault." "You're why they's chasing after us," Lyle said, "right?" "Yes." "When they tie us to Tom, what'll happen?" "They'll kill all four of us." "Me?" Dennis shouted. "No, not me. I didn't help with that." "Under state law, you did." Nolan consoled him with a look of glee with somewhat pity. "You might get imprisioned. Derek might too, but considerin his record, he'll get stuck with us. If we're short of luck, they hang the four of us." "Malik knows now." Lyle Jackson wagged a finger at him. "He's a witness. A good witness." Malik said, "I only want my boys." "You're boy and girl. See Malik, I ain't that dumb. We'' all dumb, but you made us out to be slow ones. Not atall, brother. Not atall. I busted out your lie the moment you came to me." He locked the cigarette between his mandible and crushed it well. "You see Malik, we's wanted men. Currently being hunted down by the best the state can come by." Lyle seized Malik by the arm, pressing his fingers hard on the skin. He knew the face of a hooligan when he saw it. Malik gulped. "Let him go," Dennis went, snot running down his nose. "Let him go. I don't wanna get murder tagged on me." "You do that, Lyle," Nolan adds. Lyle Jackson wasn't sure what Nolan meant. Did he mean to let the man free? Or kill him? He squeezed the hatchet free from the arm. It dropped right below them. Malik'd let go. They both did. "Good, Malik." Lyle Jackson wiggled the cigarette, strained the whites. "You know how it goes, the blood just starts to boil." "It gets hot a little once in a while," Derek says. "A little too hot," Lyle said. "Don't it, Malik?" Malik didn't respond. He stayed fixated; the whites of his eyes were glossy, his shoulders hunched up, teeth gritted, and an unseen rage boiled in his belly. Lyle went in to clasp the man's arm, make him simmer it down, and that was when Malik belched. Out came a hot, wicked cloud of punches. One struck Lyle so hard it sent the torch flying. It landed a few ways from Dennis, and he had reacted by throwing a dancing fit. More like he was dancing a gig. He threw one punch after another. The man was quick. He was an unsuspected fight and someone more challenging than Derek. The Woods-funk had been taller, easier to strike down. This new enemy was more sudden, like a game of Whac-A-Mole. His punches were the mallets, strong and they drowned his ears in pain. Lyle saw many colors during those plentiful hits—he'd later swear he had an out-of-body experience. ''Hit on, he thought. Hit me all you want, Malik. Malik's last punch left a dent. A permanent dent. His locked fist pulled upwards and tore down into the ringleader's chest. For the first time, Lyle screamed out loud. Malik, either dazed from the yell or sympathizing, stopped then. He was huffing, cheeks puffing. Sweat rolled down his face in big globs. He stood over Lyle who was on his knees, each other wordless. "Oh God!" Dennis shouted. "Don't you do it!" Oh boy, Lyle had already started when they'd crawled into the sewer. Right now, he himself had the hatchet. He stood up. The power flowed into his veins, and it apparently calmed the pain in his chest that would soon prove deadly. It was a shrill of enjoyment, something that Lyle had acquired a sweet-tooth for. "You're gonna die Malik, and there's nothing I can do about it." "Stop!" The man sobbingly cried. "Stop! I give, I give!" "Malik," Lyle uttered. "Who's the killer, me or you?" Jackson was now the one who busted the moles. He cracked the hatchet into the sky and let it drop from the heavens. The large tombstone-blade came down sharp like the scythe of the Devil, splitting Malik's scalp and spewing broken skull and red matter. The blood was a growling Niagara. Lyle's hand twisted the hatchet to the side, yet he couldn't pull it out. He was left staring into the endless look on Malik's face. It had horror and fright etched into it. Malik had left the world astonished, facing the unknown stranger called Lyle Jackson. The winner, the smart thug named Lyle, staggered with his grip on the hatchet. A bloody red color had washed over his shirt, blackening it in a deeply vivid stain. Malik's face was gone, covered in six feet of crimson. The woodcutter's ax unleashed itself from his skull like Arthur's Exscaliber. Nolan shuddered and goosebumped as well, but in the dark there was no one to remember it. What all four would remember as it drenched into their hearts was how Malik lifelessly slumped onto the floor. Lyle was steadfast for a while at trying to keep the limp body up. Both of them shambled, together it was like he'd decided to dance with a mannequin. When Malik began to collapse towards the side, Derek grabbed one arm and stood him up. It failed soon after, and Malik hit the floor on his side. One of them started to cackle. Could have been Nolan or Dennis even. Say, it might have been the reaper himself tending to the day's fresh soul. "He's dead," Dennis said. "We did it to him. We're headed straight for Hell—oh God." Nolan had no words. After all, he and Lyle had been bunk-buddies in summer camp. "No, probably not," Jacky-boy answered back, probably right. Most likely only he would. He looked back at the dead man as Nolan was turning to face him. He gazed at the crime scene for a long while. Lyle bent down and picked up the smouldering broomstick, giving it a good shake. He flashed it across the scene, the broom hissing and cracking. The room turned into an orange lightbulb. He heard a series of loud bangs—''they all heard the gunshots''. A fly buzzed and flew past him. He watched it travel around the glare of the fire. The air around the broomstick was teeming with orange flies, crackling ash. Junebugs, Lyle gave a moment's thought, jumping Jehoshaphat. He himself had nights like these around campfires. Huddled together with other campers. Nolan, too. Where there is dark, one camp counselor'd said, there would be space for light. Malik was dead. He lay slayed on the blood-soaked concrete. He looked back at Lyle, the killer looked back, and Malik kept the staring contest going. That was the thing with endless looks. His awful shadow stalked across the sewer chamber. The broomstick burning aggressively made the room an arena from Hell. His nerves jangled, going off the cliff of despair. The sight astonished Lyle; he still had the unclean hatchet in one hand. If Malcolm and his gang walked in right then, that would have been all right. Lyle wanted out; his gripping hand shook violently. The power doused over him like cool water, quelling the pain that was too much like scorching gasoline. Lyle Jackson plucked out one Marlboro and lit away. It hit his lungs with a different taste; it actually stung for a bit. But that was all right. It'd been a beautiful murder. ---- A pale horse. Fearful shapes came along the church's front. At the terror of the yowling man, the five hunters became the hunted. They ran to King's, the land they wanted themselves to leave. "Hike it over," Malcolm shouted over his groans. "Get over to it, move!" "Run, run, run," Joseph mumbled a little too loud. He stood at the front of the Christian church with Wayne and the Jacob man. He was waiting, but then the adrenaline hit him like bitter coffee, and he ran off to welcome the returned. The five broke out of the manhole, just as the Reaper finished tending to a certain soul. He was crawling out of the manhole in wisps of green smoke. He was the fear at the tips of Joseph's raised hairs. He embodied the dread on the soldier, the cool dew of sweat that perspired down his face. His two hands, cloaked until the wrists in charred black, pressed down hard on his lungs. From behind them came the noise of a woodpecker. "He's shooting now!" Carter sounded happy, like it was all a game. He was racking up points. "He's shooting now!" The ground erupted in holes and snow flew in large clouds upwards. Joseph made it to the corner and then one round clipped him in the ear. He didn't feel it. The intense fear was what he felt. "Keep running, Joe." Amanda Olson came up alongside. "We can't let you slow down." The parking lot had gotten bigger. Way bigger, all smothered in blankets of snow. It was a quarter past four in the afternoon and Joseph was tiring. He continued trodding in large, individual stomps—then caught his chest with a hand. He stopped as if put in shackles. Amanda ran by him, and so did Patrick Hughes. "I can't," he told himself. "I can't make it." He collapsed near a sizable boulder of snow, got up, and ran to the church entrance where Wayne had begun letting in passengers. Thunder cracked above him. The light slashed across eyes. Then someone placed one hand on his shoulder and it exploded in a spray of red. Joseph jerked forward and his legs jellied, causing him to spill into the church. He fell on his chest, then flipped himself over. He was numb all over for that moment. Then everything became hot. His shoulder was gone in a puddle of blood that poured out quick. "Oh God," and then he started to wriggle and twitch. His back went straight up, as if he were possessed. Spittle trickled down the corners of his mouth in big gulps of foam. The cruel pain was white-hot and stunning. He'd once saw a teenager hardly out of high school like this in an army's hospital. Joseph couldn't stop, and he didn't stop even when a couple of soon-to-be bodies dragged him from the entrance and behind a pew. "That fucker shot im," Wayne said. "Near blew off the shoulder." Joseph wailed out in pain. There's another crack of thunder. The Devil's a-comin. "The man's coming," Carter whispered. He laid on the back of one pew. "He's coming 'round, taking names." "Shut the hell right up," Malcolm said. He gave a sharp look at Amanda, who's with him alongside the walkway. "Is that the man?" "He was at the school." Wayne craned his head and asked, "He threw the cocktails, din't he?" Before one of them can respond, a cruel noise sounded— Tip-tip-clack-clack-clack. ---- Randy Juarez's spine is tingling. He is sure he hit the rawboned punk. He tried to knock out the chick. Oh hell, he thought, and opened fire at the church. The windows are already broken, so he's positive he hit something. They're screaming now, oh the screams that soothe his ears. It tastes like cognac to him. Sweet, bittersweet. Randy had no intention of letting these fools get the better of him. He came to a break in the road, the entrance to King's. "Well, if I ain't one hungry mean fucker," Randy said from the corner, making lip smacks. "I've been watching. There's a good platter of fellas in there. Wanna come out?" He was met from Malcolm with, "No." "I prefer you come outta there and fight." That was when Malcolm tried something smart. He or Amanda, no one would remember to say, passed by one window and Randy opened fire at it. All click, no crack. A volley of cracks. Before he acted on it, a beam of light from a flashlight hit him. Blinded he took a step back, then a force of a thousand pounds slammed punched his neck. The scream that started in his throat would not come out. Randy stood still, gasping for breath; one knee gave out and he fell like a dead gazelle. "I did that," Eugene's voice shook. "That's me, I did it." "Good shot, kiddo," Wayne said, mildly impressed and mildly frightened. "You idiot! You're both idiots!" Carter tore up from his hiding place and patiently walked over to Eugene. With total silence he grabbed Eugene up two feet by the collar, looking at him with the eyes of a dying man. His cheeks had gone a rosy pale and his teeth yellow cesspits. The new Carter is a better Carter. "What's the deal?" "You listen up good, punk," Carter heaved him into a wall and shoved him hard. "You thought you'd get a medal, didn't you? Shoot the killer, get a nice thrill out of it." Eugene said nothing. Wayne fortunately came over, telling Carter to back off. It would have worked too, but then Joseph convulsed again and let out an ear-splitting cry, and the hate filled Carter's good arm and struck Wayne. The fist landed on his chest, went in pretty far, and rolled Wayne into one of the first pews. The bodies of Alexander and Lilian tumbled upon him. Carter went back to shoving the kid. "You get a medal, Eugene. Really, you do." "He raised his pistol to shoot," Eugene said with a workman's speed, but Carter heard nothing. The rage drowned out all. Carter reeled his fist back and swung, striking Eugene's face and plastering one good-lookin shiner on it. This brought a female into the battle. "You let him go, you better!" Kerry Davis rose from one of the pews with her father holding her back. She turned to Amanda. "You better let him go. Just shoot the man!" Amanda held up her rifle. She was a good shot—had nearly struck Randy dead with it earlier, say off by a few feet—and Carter knew it. He'd seen her pull off shots, and by the look on her face, Carter was a dead man walking either in the path of Amanda's gun or what laid ahead. "Listen to her," she said. "Let him go, Carter. Settle it, you know how it works. You only have to let go off him, then we can take care of the body." Bodies, Carter thought. That sounds nice. "Turn him loose," Malcolm came closer, closing in. "You let him go, like the miss says. He's my own concern, Carter." "You shot him dead on the spot," Carter stared harder at the kid, one lip curling up to reveal canines. Spittle flew and landed on Eugene's face. "You shot him like a dog. Like an animal. You couldn't have waited? Huh?" "What's the matter, Eugene?" Carter pulled the boy back and impelled him into the wall again. The color drained from his face. "He killed her, he killed my sister," Eugene stammered, the crotch of his pants darkening. "He shot her. I shot him." "You killed him." Carter spoke with light sympathy. "You killed a man, boy. You're as bad as the Jackson nigger." Malcolm reached Carter and kicked him in the calf. The man grunted, toppled to the other side, and then grabbed at his leg. "What was that for!" "You know what—" Carter silenced him quick with a surprise fist to the groin. The sergeant landed on his knees, at the mercy of the madman, who rose up glaring with a smug grin. Eugene started to shuffle away and Carter made a grab at him. "Come back here," he said, pawing at the air. "I'll rip your goddam head off, tear it right off!" He kept on moving, got up on both legs, then walked lamely—''hauling'', more like it over to the boy. The hot rage blinded him, for he did not notice Eugene still had the piece on him. The boy trained it on him, giving the look of an African poacher set on a pack of wild elephant. "Stay back." That was when Carter untangled a gun from his holster. Eugene's gun was an unsent ship. Carter raised his nine millimeter and then he froze. There's a look on his face, a face that just saw Hell. Before he could come back, three men jumped on him—Wayne, Jacob, Private Patrick Hughes—and Carter was down. Wayne. "Let me go!" He hollered, dazed. "Tell 'em, sergeant!" "Carter," Malcolm started, then reconsidered. "Men, I need you to help him and the boy up." "Are you crazy?" Wayne held Carter by his aching foot and arm. "Malcolm, you gone crazy. Jacob and—''dammit''—don't let this bastard free." "He's insane," Patrick said. "Good God, he tried to kill the boy. He's as evil as those men we're after." "You will," Hector rode near, brandishing a shotgun that stood out well. "Or I'll blow some buck into the three of you, so move it. Off him." They did, after a mild protest, they did. In the background, the red sky was coming back. Joseph screamed and the gunman writhed in pain. "I died here," Randy managed to say, voice gurgling as blood formed over his chest. It spilled out of his collarbone, where a 9mm cartridge had tore through and ruptured apart a few vertebrae. He was paralyzed from the neck down, a body alive but not moving. He whispered to himself, and all he saw was a blotchy world of black paint. "Can't see." Amanda, bearing no guilt, walked to the entrance where the man was. She crouched down beside the fallen thug, taking his cross in her palm. Inside the church Malcolm had gotten up, stiffened from the hit, and had gone to meet Amanda. The other men were busy wrangling up Carter Jameson, who wasn't much of a fight anymore. "I can't see no more," Randy said. "I can't see a whole lot." "He's losing it," said Amanda. "You sorry bitches killed my friend," Randy said. "I did." "You did, that. That's right, sorry bitch. You shot Flaco. He was a kid. A sorry bitch. He didn't mean to get jangled up in this mess. I did that. And I did this. I won." "You're dying." "I'm 'fraid of it," Randy said. A film of blood smothered his lips and chin. "Dying, that's what I'm 'fraid of. Tell me, didja really do it? Shoot Flaco?" "Yes," Amanda told him. "And I don't regret it. He went quickly." Randy shook and stirred, his chest panting. "I'm Randy Juarez. I'm a part of the cartel, and I don't regret that. Don, that asshole. I died, shit, I died like a sorry bitch. Who shot me, was it—" "Not me. It was a kid named Eugene." "Eugene." "That's right." Randy started panting, his pupils dilating. He saw fire, a great many of fires. It was all dark, black like smoke leaving a tobacco farm. He was being wrapped up by a cloud of gray ruin, a harsh world around him. One thing stood out to him, and those were his hands. He asked the reaper, "Let me see them. The hands." One of the people from the past world held them up to his face. "Useless, useless." He died at the yoke of the second twilight. ---- "It freaks the hell out of me," Lyle said, sitting on the stool with the cigarette still puffing, still puffing but almost done for. The smoke was benumbing. That's how you got used to it. He took the Marlboro out and let out a big puff. It came and he took a fine drag of it while his odds of getting lung rot skyrocketed. He wouldn't, though. The Jackson man is strong. He's attached the hatchet to his belt. Another drag. The tobacco farm burns up. "I'd like to forget about it. But I cannot. He's dead and we're with him. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us sinners—now, and at the hour of our death. Our death." "What's got you thinking we'll die?" Derek's eyes lit up, the crackling flames bouncing off the broom in his direction. "I'm nowhere near to death." "You see that body," Lyle said, sticking the burning broom at Malik. The man still laid where he'd taken to, however they'd thrown a sheet of cloth over him. Dennis had closed the endless look. "You look at that body. It's death, all too near. Gotta see it for yourself, Derek. Slide off that tablecloth, look into them eyes, and take a big breath of shut the hell up." Another drag. "Amen, Mary. Blessed art thou." "Amen," Dennis said. He came over to the stool, digging something out his pants. "I think it'd be nice," he said, plucking out a celluloid photo. "It's when we went to the fair. Hoosier one, that day. Say Lyle, you remember?" "I do," Lyle scanned the produced image, a vision into the past. The four of them stood together. The Johnson man and Nolan in the middle, the two others at the sides. Lyle had a smoke, Nolan a bottle of Bud, Derek'd been eating a fat broiled hotdog, and Dennis had nothing but a smile. They all had smiles, that's one for the books. "I sure do," Nolan piped in. "I was chugging a Budweiser." "Miller," Derek said. "You drank a Miller. I remember since that's what ya spilled on my shoes. The leather ones." "Shouldn't've had them on in the first place," Nolan justified. "Yo, Nolan." Lyle rolled through the celluloid snaps. "You recall what happened at summer camp, yes?" "Summer camp. It was a sleepaway, so we slept through tough weather. Fought the elements. Yeah, man, I do remember." Jackson reached the end of the celluloid, gave it back to Dennis and suggested showing the tall Derek. "I feel like that. I feel how ya did. I remember, too. You was beneath me, and I was on top. I saw things no boy shoulda ever seen. I saw the critters move when you heard them. I saw a mountain lion snoop round the cabin when you smelled their shit. I watched the lady counselors skinny-dip when you heard the snickering. I saw, you felt." "Now you know what I felt," Nolan said, "under that bunk. Scared deathless. Afraid of the dark." "The dark makes you think," Lyle added. "Makes you imagine." Lyle Jackson left the stool. He left the broom on it, a subtle burning line written along a sheet of unknown. "I know you're all fed up with me. You especially, Woods. But I gotta ask, we all keep our heads up. Seize the moment when it's given. A president said that once. We hang together now, stuck close, or they'll hang us together." He massaged his chest, which pained him dearly, and worked up to the ache in his throat. "I know not what's planned for us, but none of us will die here. None of us will. It's not how it gets to be. We're gonna stop breathing at some point, that's heard. But stick with me, ride side me, and the four of us might live a bit longer." "Wayne," Dennis said. "Wayne?" "What about him?" "We'll need him." Nolan's arms crossed. "We ought to get him before" "He's a lost cause," Lyle said, but that left some distaste. "I mean, it's hard to say. He hasn't done a whole lot." The torch flame weakened. Just like that, the Jackson gangster thought, Wayne's a lost cause. Call it what you want, he's behind it. Got too close at Summercreek, and he tattle-taled and bolted. "I'll teach him a lesson," a voice within Lyle said. "What?" Nolan asked him. "Nothing." "You say keep our heads up," Nolan said, "but do we turn our backs?" "How so?" "I watched Alexander get pulled out goddam my arms. His blood is still on me. I get sick just thinking about it. I killed that officer, too. Oh God, what shit'd we step into?" Lyle never got to respond. He would never even get to. Not in the alleys of purgatory, not on the benches of Pirate's Cove, and not even when slammed into the iron chamber locked with bars where tendrils of black smoke would welcome him, would he get to respond. "I have no—" He'd begun, and that acted like the dinnerbell for the first of the shouts. The first of the bangs on the door, too. Lyle turned sides and saw the door rattle like scared trees, buckle after a second ram, then with the will of a military boot it swung open. People rushed in—Malcolm came first, but it was a surprising sight when Carter ripped past the man. "You stand still, nigger," Carter said and a carnivore's gulp belched in his throat. "I'll knock you into Hell myself," he added, pulling up to Lyle and swung a fist that went whoosh! The hit landed hard and stubborn, clocking Lyle in the chest. The fist landed on him stumbling feet, two feet that anchored him in a wave of dumbfoundment. He's pulling at the hatchet, grabbing more belt than wood. Carter jerked his bad arm up a little and Lyle flinched, dodging the red herring which Carter'd made out as true. The better Carter reeled back his good arm and the fist at the end of it came in at a weird arc from the side, knocking into Jackson's skull. Hector ran past Malcolm. He's got the shotgun up. "Hold him, no, grab him!" Carter shouted, "Them!" Before Hector can respond, there's someone on him. This person, who's name is Dennis, could have easily gone for Malcolm. Instead, the battle of the rotten skeletons'd began—Dennis rattled the officer of the law with hit after hit and Hector fought for his shotgun. One particular hit cracked Hector's eyebrow down the side and covered his face in red. Blood, Dennis thought, but no it was not. It was what he wanted to see. That's the reason Dennis kept on hitting. "Get this fucker off!" "Make due, asshole," Carter said, holding Lyle Jackson to the wall. It only took one hand to. The man was lighter than ever. His head had fallen to the chest which covered his heart, the thing Carter wanted. The big fish wanted to crush it. He wanted to squeeze the life out of it. Carter grabbed the man's head and held it up atop the shoulders. "Well, get ready Lyle," Carter said, and struck the man with one last hit. The knuckles met with Lyle's chin, rippled the force and pain of a donkey's jawbone throughout him, and silenced Jackson. "I killed im!" Carter cried in a bark of laughter. "I think I got him!" Just then, another force ran itself into Carter. The Jameson officer, who can't be held much to that title, smacked into the floor. Nolan was on him, Derek following close. Carter wrestled for an escape, but he had no way to do such a thing. "Get those hands off me, nigger-lover!" "Shut up, Carter. Just shut up." Then the sound of the Reaper. He was on his way back. Lyle stands still on the wall, resting in awe. He's breathless, can't breath even if he could. The power of the fist had left him weak. Vulnerable, he thought. That's all it was, a single thought. He wouldn't give the reaper anymore. He unstrung the hatchet from his belt, put it in his hand, and went towards Carter. Not Hector, but the man of all worries. He walked to Carter, rose the hatchet up like a guillotine, and flashed a smirk. Stop, a voice told him. "You stop that, Lyle." Malcolm has a gun drawn on him. On them. Before Lyle can react, before he sees this blessing wearing a cloak, he's surrounded. Amanda's gun is drawn on him. He feels more, but here in the unknown, there is no such thing as what is known. He didn't question; the hatchet dropped like a rock. His hands crossed over his head, slowly down to the back of it. He's surrendered and surrounded. Hector has Dennis down on his knees. The shotgun's on his forehead, laughing hellishly about blowing it apart. Carter was up. The big fish held Nolan down with his boot, and Derek had walked away from them and done the same as Lyle. Hands crossed behind his head. The notorious white flag for giving up. "You're all arrested," Malcolm said. "You fugitives are done. You'll be summarily taken to the next jail we come upon." "In other words," Hector said, "summarily executed. Pow, one to the head. Ain't that what you said, Jackson?" "Yeah, Jackson," Carter said as well, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth. His hair of brown had become a hair of blood. A hair of a working man. His face was new. This was the first time in a long while Lyle'd seen him eye-to-eye. Last time had been at Summercreek. His face wasn't skin, it was a simple black kerchief over his lower face. He was hiding something, and in the light of Amanda's torch, Lyle saw a strange band of raging red trickling down his eye. It was not blood. Had it been, Lyle wouldn't have remembered it. Carter was sick. Sick in the head, sick in the mind. It was a goddam rash. An infection. "Say, man. You think these four crazies are working with that criminal? Or, should I say were working with him? Yes, Jackson, we stomped that man's ass. He burned the school to the ground, man. You got arson on you, Jackson." After a moment of thought he added, "Can't forget the shitlint. Joseph's WIA." "Wounded in action," Carter told Lyle, but had his deadeyes on Nolan. "That means your buddy, cocksuckin buddy, ruined him. Joe's shoulder is gone, all mangled and bloody. Wouldn't be surprised if he died, yeah." "You heard that, boys," Carter said, slapping Lyle on the back. He tossed Hector a hand. "Bodies upon bodies—cold-hard evidence." "Yeah," Hector replied, grabbing Carter's handshake and pumping it. Hector Pacino used his other hand to point a finger-gun at Lyle and imitated blowing it right the heck off. "Pow." "Pop, Lyle. Pop, pop." He made three fake moves with his pistol, then whipped Lyle across the face with it. All Malcolm said was, "Enough, Carter. God damn you, that's an order." "That's okay," Lyle said, coming back to the darks of Carter's eyes. "I'll remember you," he looked to Hector. "You too." "You oughta shut up—" Hector wagged a finger at the man, then looked at Amanda who stood with Patrick Hughes, or the witness to it all. "Ain't you gonna arrest him? Ain't you gonna arrest these shitlicks?" She turned to Malcolm. "Do it now?" "Yes," he said. "Before bodies start dropping." "Like that one," Carter pointed at Malik's carpeted corpse, holding the hatchet and making practice swings. He looked only at Hector. "Got them on murder, too." "Lilian?" "You bet, Hector." "Holy God," Malcolm said, catching himself when he saw the cadaver. He told Patrick, "We take them today. Now." "I'll need a radio. Or something." "We'll get you it," he said, flapping a hand. "When'll that be?" Dennis asked, on his knees pleading. When'll we die, he didn't ask the time for. "Tomorrow morning, at best." Lyle watched from where he stood. Amanda's reading him his Miranda rights. "Tomorrow mornin'?" "December eleventh, son. That's what we call hope." "He's a dangerous man," Dennis said and Malcolm pushed him flat on his chest against the wall. "A dangerous man, you know Lyle is. You've known him a good while to know just that." "Love thy neighbor," Amanda said and fastened the locks to Dennis Johnson's wrist. The man winced at the crack they made, and Nolan saw that. They were side-by-side, as it had been in the celluloid. The reaper liked patterns like that. She leaned in close enough for Dennis to smell her fragrance and said, "Don't worry too much. These men are only as scary as jack-o-lanterns. Don't make them out to be devils, or they'll win." "You haven't got a lot of clues," Nolan said, and he was shackled. The Grim reaper patted him. "They don't got the right to do this. My pa was a state's soldier. You can't do this. I didn't kill anybody. I did not." "They don't give the slightest shit," Lyle said. "Now we pay the price. Like wild west boys. Can you believe that, bro?" "I wouldn't want to," Nolan replied and his friend was shackled soon after. "This is plain bullshit and I smell it. Plain bullshit, Malcolm!" Malcolm chuckled. After all of it, he managed it. For the first time in a long time, he felt the chuckle was justified. He didn't care who he'd wrangled up, whether they be freemen or runaway thieves, because he was overjoyed. It was a fisherman's catch in a drought. A waiter's first tip in weeks. He liked it, and he didn't know how much it'd come back to slap him. "Death penalties," Hector said, pointing at each of the four with emphasis. "Or with this state's laws, four life-terms." "I say death," Carter corrected. "Get prepped for the eleventh, fellas. That's when you'll four start walking the Green mile." ---- Play that dead band song. A wax-stiff hand had doused the skies black. One dead fingernail was scraping at the wilderness. Awake, the grasshoppers chirr'd. The toll booth was mostly obsolete in the snow blanketed road, save for what passed as a troupe of cars. The new green boy, Patrick Hughes, had hotwired two more. "For the bodies," he'd said. The toll booth was a motel for limp lights. Carter hung beneath them in one booth. A whizzing lightbulb was above his head, no doubt spent. "Right on the money," he said, sweat making speed down his face. He's a hundred degrees high. He dabbed some sweat on his forehead. It's a severe heat he's wrought. Bodies, he remembers. He is all alone. Way down in the hole. The others are about the cars, walking and talking. They are bodies, warm-blooded bloodies. Carter's mouth is watering now. He can't help smother the flame, for he's afraid he'll only burn himself. He tried that once a short while ago with the Jackson man when asking him if, say, he wanted a bottle of water. The ice-cold kind. "Of course I do," Lyle had said from the back of the patrol car. His face was near damning behind the bars. "I'd also like a fine lady to sit on me. I'd like that very, very much." "So would I," Carter responded, yet it came out: Doh would pie. Lyle Jackson'd taken a good note of it. "You dying of a heart stroke. Man, you know how it is. The blood just starts to boil." At that moment Carter'd propped his bottle close to the bars—"Drink up,"—and then rolled the bottle downward. The floor cushion became a puddle. "Drink up, s'nore it gets too rot. Hot. Before it gets too hot." "You shot my boy," Lyle said, "ain't you do it?" "I'm at two bullets." Carter tapped the holster at his side. "I was at the door. Damn, I had four. Four bullets, and one's in your buddy." In almost cosmic unison, Nolan had screamed out terrible pain in the distance. The Davis girl had spread a rag over his ass, set it tight, and then locked it like the muscles of a boar's neck. Now Carter sat in the dark. The darkness had a peace about it. This was a darkness that intercepted feelings and sucked them dry. The darkness, black velvet like a vampire's collar, is familiar. It's the dead lights of the day. It captures the last light spoken. Yet, the cavemen would still live on. Without the light, Carter thought, I feel it. It tells me to grow. It tells me to feed. I feel it. The thrill for Carter had long since been gone. And now that the day was all over, a few breaths from over, Carter had been hit by lasting, well-fed fatigue. He stirred in the toll booth, a captured rat tossed into a barrel. The twin carbon-black has seeped into his mind and soul. It's a mesmerizing mirror into nothing. He's a vampire. Carter needs the blood like Lyle needed water. The blood starts to boil. That boiling makes it taste well. Like chocolate syrup. He looked around the toll booth. There was a thick layer of glass, fertilized with dust from the past. Carter took it and peered in, laughing with a gloom that sounded too much like happiness. He undid the kerchief and behold, a skinned face from the depths of Hell. It burned to just about touch. His cheeks disappeared into his skull, holes and crevasses aplenty. Skin literally hung in tears, and a line shaped like a teardrop had worked its way upwards. Into his eye, it felt like the pain of nine wives. "All I see turns to brown," Carter said, phlegm gurgling a swamp bubble in his throat. He beat his chest. "Wasted land. The sun burned me. That's mean I'll burn 'em." He set the mirror back as his enemies—Malcolm and Hector specifically with that officer of the bra—made their way to his booth. This booth was his rightful booth. Carter saw he'd had his hand on top of his sidearm for the entire time. He had no clue how or when it'd got there, but then the hot redness bled into his brain: eat them. I will, the better Carter responded. You bet your bottom dollar on it. I've got much to do. So little time. Should pray, but that'd make me a wuss. I'm only hungry, that's all. '' "Can't a man eat?" Carter said, head craned back and looking awfully tranced at the ceiling. "I'm a beast now. A beast needs a feast. A feast of flesh for the beast in flesh." ''I believe you'll do it, the better Carter instigated. The three others had reached the tool booth. They'd see no evil, for Carter's kerchief was up again.'' Rest a while, get up, and support. We all support the team, Carter. Or else you're all alone. And you don't wanna be an alone.'' Issues Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues